Heart of Oak (23 page)

She shook her head. Later, every detail would be clear. She walked to the windows again and stared out at the garden, then at her own reflection. It had to be now, or she might break.

“Finish the painting. For
me.
You will be paid.” She turned with that new, cold deliberation and returned to the stool and the harp, drew her fingers across the strings, heard the sweet notes in the utter silence. She knew the others were watching her as if unable to move.

She arched her shoulders and felt the smock fall around her ankles.

No fear.
His final gift.

“C
APTAIN
,
sir!
”

Adam Bolitho opened his eyes, his mind reluctant to respond. It was too early; he had only just fallen asleep. But the shadowy figure beside the chair was real, the midshipman’s white patches visible against the cabin’s dim backdrop.

“Thank you, Mr Hotham. Right on time.”

“Morning watch, sir.”

Adam allowed his body to relax, hearing the muffled sounds of the ship around him, the occasional thud of the rudder head. Four o’clock in the morning. And it would be exactly that: Monteith had been standing the middle watch, and he would make certain that the half-hour glass was turned only when the last grains had run through it. No “warming the glass” to shorten the watch for those on deck. He could remember being told to do it himself when he had been like young Hotham.

He rolled over and felt the ship come alive beneath him. Slow, uneven; the wind had dropped again. He peered aft at the stern windows. Utter darkness, but in a few minutes his mind would be fully awake, and the gloom would be gone.

A visit to the chart room. The latest calculations on the chart.
Reality.
He felt for his shoes, a foot at a time. No pain. Luke Jago or some mate of his had done a good job of stretching the one that had been too tight.

“Mr Vincent sends his respects, sir, and do you require some refreshment?”

He felt the deck shudder again, heard the far-off squeal of blocks.

“I think not. It sounds as if Mr Vincent has other tasks more pressing. You’d better go to him.”

He heard the door close. Hotham would carry it all with him back to the midshipmen’s berth. Good or bad.
As I once did.

He walked aft, his body angled unconsciously to the deck. Today, he would meet with the purser and discuss his complaint that some of the stores were unsatisfactory. Some one else had doubtless signed for them in Gibraltar when he was looking the other way. Two hands for punishment: minor offenses, with which Vincent could deal. Gun drill again. Yesterday it had been impossible to exercise the larboard battery at all; the gunports had been almost awash as
Onward
, alive and demanding, had heeled over on the opposite tack.

He stared at the whitecaps beneath the counter. The first hint of dawn lay on the water. Tomorrow they would anchor at Gibraltar once more. What next? And what had they achieved?

Something broke the pattern, a leaping fish, or perhaps the cook had thrown scraps overboard.

He recalled the explosion, the great spread of wreckage and grisly fragments which had followed. There were no cheers or celebrations, just two ships, dipping flags. How would that look eventually in his report? Would any one care?

He thought of their departure from Aboubakr. Coastal craft in plenty, but keeping their distance. People on the beach and along the headland, others by the battery and its hidden artillery. Friends or enemies?

Nautilus
had been lying at her anchor, awnings spread and boats alongside, but her captain would be very conscious of the potential danger. Even now, many of those watching would view him not as a protector but an invader.

During his visit to
Nautilus
, Adam had been aware of the tension as he was greeted. Enemies for so many years, victories too often stained by sorrow and tragedy.

There had been moments when the shadow of the past was put aside. A French seaman had pushed through his comrades and held out both hands.

“M’sieu, you save our ship!” He had broken off, embarrassed or overwhelmed, or because his English had run its course. But he had grasped Adam’s hands in his, and his face had spoken the words which had eluded him.

Their meeting had been brief. Marchand had produced wine and two glasses and together they had drunk a toast which had remained unspoken. Then Marchand had seen him over the side, where Jago had been perched in the gig, unconvinced by this display of friendship.

Marchand had saluted him. And his last words, “Stronger than wine, Capitaine Bolitho!” still lingered in Adam’s memory.

He pulled on his old seagoing coat with its frayed and tarnished epaulettes and walked to the screen door. There would be new orders at the Rock. To take despatches to another squadron, or to relieve some man-of-war in need of refit or overhaul. Vigilance remained high in these waters, and there was always the possibility of local uprisings which could lead to renewed conflict. Pirates, slavers and smugglers all made their own rules along this endless coastline. Others, like Marchand’s masters, saw it as the gateway to Africa itself, a new challenge. An empire.

He was reminded suddenly of Captain Sir John Grenville, when he had last seen him leaving this cabin.
Yours to command.
Grenville had understood the mysteries of policy and diplomacy, and it had cost him the only life he had ever truly wanted.

He heard the clink of metal and saw a Royal Marine corporal straightening his coat, probably concealing a mug of something brought for the sentry. He had been caught out by the captain’s unexpected appearance.

“Good morning, Corporal Jenkins.”

He heard him call something in response, and his heels clicking together.

They
didn’t question the rights or wrongs of being here. Their lives were the ship, and one another. It was a pity many in high authority did not remember that.

He saw the dark outline of the companion hatch, a sliver of cloud like drifting smoke, and felt the wind across his cheek as he stepped over the coaming. The tiredness was gone. This was always the same: exciting, challenging. When he had been a midshipman he had heard Sir Richard saying to some one else, “If the first moment of the day fails to stir you, you are no longer fit to command.”

The figures of the men on watch taking shape around and beyond him. The towering shadows of the mizzen sails reaching across that same streaming cloud, the yards braced hard around to hold an elusive breeze, flapping occasionally but filling again enough to rouse rigging and sailors alike.

Vincent was by the compass box, his shirt hanging loose and unfastened in the warm air. The helmsman was still indistinct in the predawn gloom, but his eyes came alive in the tiny light when he peered down at the swaying compass card.

A second helmsman straightening his back when he saw that, once again, the captain was an early riser.

Hotham was back at his post by the little hooded bench where his slate and the night log book were hidden.

Adam peered at the compass. West by north. Unmoving.

He said, “It’ll be light enough, soon.”

Vincent was ready. “I’ve detailed two good lookouts.” He glanced directly overhead. “I’ll go up myself, sir.” It sounded like a question.

“Do that, Mark. We might have lost him.”

It was hard to fix the time when they had realized that
Onward
was being followed. Probably soon after they had quit the anchorage at Aboubakr. Another schooner, but with extra topsails, which the lookout had noticed. Like
Nautilus
on their outward passage, holding the distance if
Onward
showed any sign of changing tack toward her.

There had been a few small craft sighted, but the schooner was always lagging far astern when the watches changed.

In these waters it was common enough for a vessel’s master to keep in company with a man-of-war, more so now that the great fleets were at peace and there was little fear of being stopped and searched. Or worse.

He watched as Vincent leaned across the quarterdeck rail to call to some seamen beneath him.
He thinks I’m too cautious. Afraid it might happen again.
Maybe he was right.

He walked down to the lee side. Marchand had known the master of the schooner which had exploded like an inferno, the uniformed figure Adam had seen, tied and helpless, likely already dead.

Marchand had explained in his careful English, “He had his own men aboard, not only people from Aboubakr. But his young son would also have sailed with him. They would have forced him to watch what they could do to that boy. But you cannot bargain with the devil!” He had shrugged. “Or with fate.”

Adam walked aft again and stared at the flapping topsail, barely holding the breeze. He saw Vincent climbing on to the mizzen top, his pale shirt marking his progress. And a seaman twisting round to stare at him, even as he was sliding down a backstay toward the deck. Some one close by muttered, “There ’e goes! Thinks ’e’s a young nipper!”

There was smoke in the air; the galley fire was already drawing, the cook or one of his mates preparing the first meal of the day.

He reached out and stretched every muscle. The ship coming alive. No wonder his uncle had cherished this moment.

Vincent was still climbing, hidden now by canvas and rigging. A good and caring officer, and popular also, or as popular as any first lieutenant could hope to be. But the barrier was still there between them. They were no closer than on that first day, no matter what they both might pretend.

A handshake was not enough.

Midshipman David Napier paused in the shadow of the boat-tier, looking forward along the deck. It was only an hour or so since all hands had been piped to lash up and stow hammocks and the washing down of decks had been completed. Now the hammocks, lashed and neatly paraded in the nettings, looked as if they had never moved, or
Onward
’s more than two hundred sailors and marines had not slept through the night watches undisturbed. They seemed able to ignore every motion or sound, until the shrill of a call brought them up and running.

The decks were already dry, even hot under the bare feet of seamen mustered into working parties and the others on watch.

He glanced around furtively and stepped on to a bollard, running his hand down his leg. The wound was sore, like the aftermath of a burn. But no real pain. He had been gritting his teeth, preparing himself.

He straightened up, and saw that a seaman had noticed. He grinned conspiratorially and stooped over a length of splicing. Napier shaded his eyes and stared outboard at the endless stretch of blue water. Like a great mirror. There was even a little awning rigged now above the wheel to shade the two barebacked helmsmen as they peered at the compass and watched the set of the sails.

And tomorrow they would anchor off Gibraltar. He had helped to plot the final course on the chart himself. Old Julyan, the master, had frowned sternly to conceal his approval.

“I can see that I shall have to watch out,
Mister
Napier!”

“So here you are! I sent word…” It was Lieutenant Monteith, some papers rolled in one hand. He was faultlessly turned out, untroubled, it seemed, by the heat and sluggish breeze, or the fact that he had only come off watch himself four hours ago. “I have been asked to arrange something. It has to be done before we reach Gibraltar. I am not convinced—” He looked away, as if he had gone too far. “I must go below, to the forrard messdeck.” Then, “I saw you examining your leg.” It sounded like an accusation.

“It’s strong again now, sir.”

“Good. We can’t afford…” Again, it was left unfinished.

Monteith led the way, walking briskly and without hesitation. Men stood aside or stopped what they were doing as he passed. Some of the looks spoke more loudly than words, Napier thought.

Below deck the ship seemed more spacious, the messdecks opening out, scrubbed tables arranged at regular intervals. Benches and lockers marking each individual mess where
Onward
’s company ate, slept and lived out their free time below. Away from discipline, except that which they dictated themselves. And sustained by a tolerance and brutal humour no landsman would ever understand.

At one end of the deck was a small working party, with a new timber-framed screen. Falcon, the carpenter, was overseeing their progress, jabbing a finger from time to time at the men stitching a canvas partition.

Monteith ducked beneath a deckhead beam and unfolded his papers. Napier had noticed on other occasions that he never removed his hat.
Remember, it’s their home. Show respect when you walk into it.
He had never forgotten that, and he had seen Falcon’s expression. Like the seamen on deck, no words were necessary.

Monteith said, “Harris, the man who was killed. He was one of your crew?”

Falcon eyed him warily. “Not directly. ’E was a cooper, see?”

“No matter. He answered to
you.
” He waved the papers as if it were insignificant. “We anchor tomorrow and time will be limited. When a man dies aboard ship it is customary to auction his personal effects to his messmates.” He faltered, as if it were completely foreign to him. “I am informed that, in view of the circumstances, the wardroom and warrant ranks will make a contribution.”

Falcon flicked some wood shavings from his sleeve. “I scarce knew the man, sir. ’E was aboard when the ship commissioned, and worked ashore in the yard when she was buildin’.” He rubbed his chin. “But if it’s an order…”

Another voice. “Ned Harris was ashore most of the time, sir. Only just got married. I reckon
she
can do with all the help she can get.”

Napier could feel it. A man they had hardly known, but one of their own. Not killed by accident, or in action. Murdered.

Falcon called, “’Ere, Lloyd! You worked with ’im a few times—what d’ you think?”

Napier saw him look up from the deck where he was kneeling. The sailmaker who had been a tailor ashore, and a good one according to the captain’s servant. He had turned his hand to making clothes for people in this ship, if they could afford him. He and Morgan got along well, they said.
Fellow Welshman…